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"Are you quite certain you will be able to dance, Miss Mary?" asked , concerned.

"Colonel," returned she, her eyes alight with a mischief seldom seen upon her countenance, "would you, having marched bravely through all manner of trial—crossing rivers, scaling ridges, advancing under fire, and reaching at length the enemy’s ground—then turn back, merely on account of a chill?"

At this, laughed heartily.

"No, indeed," said he. "Though, in truth, I might pause a moment to catch my breath. I am entirely content to sit out this set with you, Miss Mary."

"I shall dance this set, Colonel," she declared, with unaccustomed resolution. "Even if I must be carried from the field in the end."

"So be it," said with a gallant bow. "Come then, my lady—let us enjoy the spoils of war, having endured the trials of anticipation and the strategy of glances."

And so they danced.

There was little conversation between them, but much understanding; their steps moved with quiet concord. Mary, who had long regarded dancing as a trial of mortification masked by the finery of ribbons and music, found herself, to her great astonishment, delighting in the moment. For the first time in her life, she danced in earnest, and not merely moved.

As the music waned and bows were exchanged, offered his arm and led her gently toward the supper room. But just as they approached the threshold, a voice, ever insistent and eager, intervened.

"Mary! Mary, my dear!" cried Mrs. Bennet, hurrying forward with all the ceremony of a general marshalling his troops. "I have procured a place for you beside Mr. Darcy! You must sit there."

"No, Mama," replied Miss Mary, assuming a composure she rarely displayed. "The Colonel has been so obliging as to offer me his company."

"But—but—!" Mrs. Bennet began, flapping her handkerchief with increasing agitation—when a deeper voice intervened.

"My dear," Mr. Bennet said, arriving with quiet authority, "I suggest you look behind you."

Mrs. Bennet turned—then gasped. Her carefully arranged seat beside Darcy had already been claimed—by none other than her second eldest daughter.

"No!" Mrs. Bennet wailed. "Lizzy will drive him away with her dreadful opinions!"

She made to step forward, but Mr. Bennet stayed her with a hand placed gently, but decisively, on her shoulder.

"You shall do nothing, Mrs. Bennet," he said, in a tone that made both and Miss Mary glance his way. "The young people will sit where they please."

Even Mrs. Bennet, not much given to introspection, seemed to grasp the finality of the statement. With a huff worthy of a stage actress, she turned and stalked toward the other matrons, though not without casting a withering glance at her second eldest.

Mr. Bennet, now quite satisfied, turned back. "The course is clear," he remarked.

could not say whether the comment was intended for Miss Mary or for himself. He glanced toward Darcy, who had grown unusually quiet, his expression shadowed by thought.

Whatever reflections that silence concealed, resolved not to allow them to pass unexamined.

Supper proceeded without further interruption. After the repast, the dancing resumed. spent the next three dances in the company of ladies yet unasked. His attentions were received with varying degrees of surprise and gratitude, and by evening’s end, his name was spoken with particular fondness in several obscure corners of the room.

As for Miss Mary, she danced but once more—and that, rather astonishingly, with her father. The sight of Mr. Bennet upon the floor caused no small stir, and when it was observed that he danced thrice in turn with his eldest daughters, it set tongues wagging almost as briskly as the musicians played.

“It is a night of wonders,”

someone was heard to whisper.

“Next, perhaps, Mrs. Bennet will take up the pianoforte!”

Happily, no such catastrophe befell them, and the evening came to its natural close.

The Bennets prepared to take their leave, wraps were called for, carriages brought round, and final civilities exchanged. It was then that Mr. Bennet, with his usual air of indifference, turned to Bingley and Darcy, not once glancing in ’s direction—though he stood quite beside them—and remarked, almost idly:

"Well, gentlemen, I suppose this was likely my final opportunity to dance with my three eldest daughters before I depart this world."

The words, spoken without emphasis, carried an unexpected weight. They were not said to , but they were most assuredly meant for him. The remark was no idle sentiment; it was, in truth, a signal—perhaps even a mark of approval. That Mr. Bennet had seen and approved; that he expected to act, equally so.

All that remained was for to decide whether he would—or indeed, whether he could.